


Caring Won't Save Their Lives

by Emachinescat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time – a long, long time ago, mind you – that he showed and felt more empathy for the dead, the suffering, the hostages, the victims. He'd thought that time was long gone – and then he met John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring Won't Save Their Lives

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock. Spoilers for 1x3. 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

He'd seen a lot of destruction and devastation in his young life – more than most had, he knew; even more than so-called seasoned police officers. After all, it was part of his job as the world's only consultant detective. He'd seen rape, murder, vandalism – and the extremes of these. He'd seen lives ripped apart, families wailing over the remains of their loved ones, and he'd seen the worst in the world: those who saw any kind of goodness and innocence and exploited it, contained it, destroyed it. Brutally. He'd seen enough turmoil and destruction to turn a normal man's stomach.

But Sherlock Holmes  _wasn't_  a normal man.

Some people thought he was a masochist, that he enjoyed others' pain. No, that wasn't it, not exactly, anyway. It was true; murders were enticing and he relished the rush of adrenaline that coursed through him as the miniscule details everyone else missed called out to him, guiding him through the puzzle. Of course he loved a good mystery, but good heavens, did that  _really_  mean he enjoyed the suffering of the victim?

Of course not.

There was a time – a long,  _long_  time ago, mind you – that he showed and felt more empathy for the dead, the suffering, the hostages, the victims. There was maybe a time when he might have shed a tear or two over the mangled corpse of a father, brother, or son. That time was no more, because he had learned something in his years dealing with this kind of grotesque imagery. Like he'd so callously informed his new flatmate,  _caring won't do anything to save them. Only action._

You see, it was simple, really, yet no one – not even John, who had a good mind, although still incredibly  _dull_  by Sherlock's standards – seemed to understand. It wasn't that he  _didn't_  care about the victims of the crimes, about the young woman in a car with a bomb strapped to her chest, or the young man on the street corner with a sniper just waiting to blow his brains out, or the – the old woman who was terrified in her own home, whose life was taken in a much more violent way than she could have ever dreamed, or the child forced to count down until the bomb attached to him was set off. John seemed to think he had no empathy, that he didn't care about the hostages, but that wasn't strictly true.

No, he didn't know them personally and that made it much easier to turn a blind eye and pretend it wasn't happening. That was one reason he didn't have many friends, actually.  _Any_  friends, really. Because in a world like this, in a job like his, friends are just liabilities. They're tools to be used against you, to make you weak, to manipulate your emotions and bend you to the antagonist's will. Sherlock had learned long ago that having friends only meant giving the enemy means to control you, and that was something he could not afford.

So he had no friends and he showed no empathy for the one or two people terrified or hurt along the way. They were strangers to him, and that made it easier. He has to think, though – for the greater good, the fun of the riddle, capturing or killing the enemy in the end – doesn't it make a few lost lives worth it, a few hurt feelings worth it? By catching the mastermind, he was saving many  _more_ people from the others' fate.

The old lady's last words still haunted him, though, and he thought distantly she might have sounded like his grandmother would've. Maybe she had grandchildren – grandchildren that would sit at her side and make her laugh, that she would entertain with stories about 'the olden days' and then give cookies to. That  _was_  what grandmothers did, right? He didn't rightfully know. But after the woman's death, he found himself wondering…

 _Damn you, John,_  he found himself thinking one evening as he tried to concentrate on his work. _Why did you have to say those things? Get this into my head? I don't need the distraction. I don't need_ you _telling me I don't care. It's because I care that I don't care. It's simple, you see, John,_  he said mentally to the John that really wasn't there,  _if I care about them, let emotions get in the way, I'll be hindered. I won't be able to save them, or to solve the puzzle. So I do it for them, really. Not for myself, not for the thrill… or do I? And – stop looking at me like that; as if I care if you're disappointed in me – even if I_ am _doing it for the thrills and the excitement solving these puzzles gives me, is that so wrong?_

John's disappointed silence and angry glare had given him his answer.

And then it had happened, at the pool – John had walked out, strapped down with so many bombs it made Sherlock's head spin, and he realized that maybe he  _did_  care. Just a little.

In the short time he had known John, a bond had been formed between them. Nothing questionable, of course, like many people –  _including_  his housekeeper, er, landlady, bless her – seemed to think. But a strong… acquaintanceship? Dare he think it – friendship?

Maybe.

Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to have a friend.

And then, with John inches from death, the red dot from the sniper's gun scoping his chest where the bombs were strapped, Sherlock remembered what it was like – it was utterly ridiculous, stupid, and pointless. It was idiotic. It was terrifying.  _If this is what friendship does to you, I want no part in it,_  he thought in that moment. He didn't want the terror at the thought of John Watson dying a violent death, he didn't want the concern, he didn't want the  _caring_ , and he certainly didn't want the weakness.

Then again…

It felt good to have someone to vent to, someone besides his skull, that is, someone who could sometimes offer semi-intelligent feedback and often make him smile with his sarcastic retorts. It was true, he liked John, and found that he didn't mind so much, having a friend, when said friend wasn't being used against him.

When he  _was_ , it made Sherlock  _angry_. He could've killed Moriarty then and there, but if he had, John would've died. So, technically, if he  _didn't_  care about people, then he would've shot Moriarty. John would've died. And Sherlock would've failed to save him. So he  _did_  care, in a strange way that only someone of his supreme knowledge and intellect could understand.

Maybe someday – sooner than he thinks, possibly, if the look of thanks and relief on John's face after Sherlock raced to his side and freed him of the explosives was anything to say by – John would understand, too.

It was a strange thing, having a friend that would challenge his beliefs and motivations, who stuck up for what he thought was right and wasn't afraid to voice his opinion. And even though Sherlock acted like he couldn't care less, he was beginning to realize that he didn't mind so much, not that he would ever tell John that – heavens, no.

But that  _was_  something to think about, the idea that had been triggered by John's capture and near death – the idea that maybe –  _just maybe_  – caring about them  _could_  save their lives, after all.

 


End file.
